Her mind dwelt upon nothing else but the stranger, and the house, and her own chance of living there, all the rest of the day. In the afternoon she had occasion to pay a few bills in the town and do a little shopping when she learnt that what was a new discovery to herself had become a common topic about the streets. High-Place Hall was undergoing repair; a lady was coming there to live shortly; all the shop-people knew it, and had already discounted the chance of her being a customer.
Elizabeth-Jane could, however, add a capping touch to information so new to her in the bulk. The lady, she said, had arrived that day.
When the lamps were lighted, and it was yet not so dark as to render chimneys, attics4, and roofs invisible, Elizabeth, almost with a lover's feeling, thought she would like to look at the outside of High-Place Hall. She went up the street in that direction.
The Hall, with its grey facade5 and parapet, was the only residence of its sort so near the centre of the town. It had, in the first place, the characteristics of a country mansion--birds' nests in its chimneys, damp nooks where fungi6 grew and irregularities of surface direct from Nature's trowel. At night the forms of passengers were patterned by the lamps in black shadows upon the pale walls.
This evening motes7 of straw lay around, and other signs of the premises8 having been in that lawless condition which accompanies the entry of a new tenant9. The house was entirely10 of stone, and formed an example of dignity without great size. It was not altogether aristocratic, still less consequential11, yet the old-fashioned stranger instinctively12 said "Blood built it, and Wealth enjoys it" however vague his opinions of those accessories might be.
Yet as regards the enjoying it the stranger would have been wrong, for until this very evening, when the new lady had arrived, the house had been empty for a year or two while before that interval13 its occupancy had been irregular. The reason of its unpopularity was soon made manifest. Some of its rooms overlooked the market-place; and such a prospect14 from such a house was not considered desirable or seemly by its would-be occupiers.
Elizabeth's eyes sought the upper rooms, and saw lights there. The lady had obviously arrived. The impression that this woman of comparatively practised manner had made upon the studious girl's mind was so deep that she enjoyed standing16 under an opposite archway merely to think that the charming lady was inside the confronting walls, and to wonder what she was doing. Her admiration17 for the architecture of that front was entirely on account of the inmate18 it screened. Though for that matter the architecture deserved admiration, or at least study, on its own account. It was Palladian, and like most architecture erected19 since the Gothic age was a compilation20 rather than a design. But its reasonableness made it impressive. It was not rich, but rich enough. A timely consciousness of the ultimate vanity of human architecture, no less than of other human things, had prevented artistic21 superfluity.
Men had still quite recently been going in and out with parcels and packing-cases, rendering22 the door and hall within like a public thoroughfare. Elizabeth trotted23 through the open door in the dusk, but becoming alarmed at her own temerity24 she went quickly out again by another which stood open in the lofty wall of the back court. To her surprise she found herself in one of the little-used alleys25 of the town. Looking round at the door which had given her egress27, by the light of the solitary28 lamp fixed29 in the alley26, she saw that it was arched and old--older even than the house itself. The door was studded, and the keystone of the arch was a mask. Originally the mask had exhibited a comic leer, as could still be discerned; but generations of Casterbridge boys had thrown stones at the mask, aiming at its open mouth; and the blows thereon had chipped off the lips and jaws30 as if they had been eaten away by disease. The appearance was so ghastly by the weakly lamp-glimmer that she could not bear to look at it--the first unpleasant feature of her visit.
The position of the queer old door and the odd presence of the leering mask suggested one thing above all others as appertaining to the mansion's past history--intrigue. By the alley it had been possible to come unseen from all sorts of quarters in the town--the old play-house, the old bullstake, the old cock-pit, the pool wherein nameless infants had been used to disappear. High-Place Hall could boast of its conveniences undoubtedly31.
She turned to come away in the nearest direction homeward, which was down the alley, but hearing footsteps approaching in that quarter, and having no great wish to be found in such a place at such a time she quickly retreated. There being no other way out she stood behind a brick pier15 till the intruder should have gone his ways.
Had she watched she would have been surprised. She would have seen that the pedestrian on coming up made straight for the arched doorway32: that as he paused with his hand upon the latch33 the lamplight fell upon the face of Henchard.
But Elizabeth-Jane clung so closely to her nook that she discerned nothing of this. Henchard passed in, as ignorant of her presence as she was ignorant of his identity, and disappeared in the darkness. Elizabeth came out a second time into the alley, and made the best of her way home.
Henchard's chiding34, by begetting35 in her a nervous fear of doing anything definable as unladylike, had operated thus curiously36 in keeping them unknown to each other at a critical moment. Much might have resulted from recognition-at the least a query37 on either side in one and the selfsame form: What could he or she possibly be doing there?
Henchard, whatever his business at the lady's house, reached his own home only a few minutes later than Elizabeth-Jane. Her plan was to broach38 the question of leaving his roof this evening; the events of the day had urged her to the course. But its execution depended upon his mood, and she anxiously awaited his manner towards her. She found that it had changed. He showed no further tendency to be angry; he showed something worse. Absolute indifference39 had taken the place of irritability40; and his coldness was such that it encouraged her to departure, even more than hot temper could have done.
"Father, have you any objection to my going away?" she asked.
"Going away! No--none whatever. Where are you going?"
She thought it undesirable41 and unnecessary to say anything at present about her destination to one who took so little interest in her. He would know that soon enough. "I have heard of an opportunity of getting more cultivated and finished, and being less idle," she answered, with hesitation42. "A chance of a place in a household where I can have advantages of study, and seeing refined life."
"Then make the best of it, in Heaven's name--if you can't get cultivated where you are."
"You don't object?"
"Object--I? Ho--no! Not at all." After a pause he said, "But you won't have enough money for this lively scheme without help, you know? If you like I should be willing to make you an allowance, so that you not be bound to live upon the starvation wages refined folk are likely to pay 'ee."
She thanked him for this offer.
"It had better be done properly," he added after a pause. "A small annuity43 is what I should like you to have--so as to be independent of me--and so that I may be independent of you. Would that please ye?"
Certainly.
"Then I'll see about it this very day." He seemed relieved to get her off his hands by this arrangement, and as far as they were concerned the matter was settled. She now simply waited to see the lady again.
The day and the hour came; but a drizzling44 rain fell. Elizabeth-Jane having now changed her orbit from one of gay independence to laborious45 self-help, thought the weather good enough for such declined glory as hers, if her friend would only face it--a matter of doubt. She went to the boot-room where her pattens had hung ever since her apotheosis46; took them down, had their mildewed47 leathers blacked, and put them on as she had done in old times. Thus mounted, and with cloak and umbrella, she went off to the place of appointment--intending, if the lady were not there, to call at the house.
One side of the churchyard--the side towards the weather-was sheltered by an ancient thatched mud wall whose eaves overhung as much as one or two feet. At the back of the wall was a corn-yard with its granary and barns--the place wherein she had met Farfrae many months earlier. Under the projection49 of the thatch48 she saw a figure. The young lady had come.
Her presence so exceptionally substantiated50 the girl's utmost hopes that she almost feared her good fortune. Fancies find rooms in the strongest minds. Here, in a churchyard old as civilization, in the worst of weathers, was a strange woman of curious fascinations51 never seen elsewhere: there might be some devilry about her presence. However, Elizabeth went on to the church tower, on whose summit the rope of a flagstaff rattled52 in the wind; and thus she came to the wall.
The lady had such a cheerful aspect in the drizzle53 that Elizabeth forgot her fancy. "Well," said the lady, a little of the whiteness of her teeth appearing with the word through the black fleece that protected her face, "have you decided54?"
"Yes, quite," said the other eagerly.
"Your father is willing?"
"Yes."
"Then come along."
"When?"
"Now--as soon as you like. I had a good mind to send to you to come to my house, thinking you might not venture up here in the wind. But as I like getting out of doors, I thought I would come and see first."
"It was my own thought."
"That shows we shall agree. Then can you come to-day? My house is so hollow and dismal55 that I want some living thing there."
"I think I might be able to," said the girl, reflecting.
Voices were borne over to them at that instant on the wind and raindrops from the other side of the wall. There came such words as "sacks," "quarters," "threshing," "tailing," "next Saturday's market," each sentence being disorganized by the gusts56 like a face in a cracked mirror. Both the women listened.
"Who are those?" said the lady.
"One is my father. He rents that yard and barn."
The lady seemed to forget the immediate57 business in listening to the technicalities of the corn trade. At last she said suddenly, "Did you tell him where you were going to?"
"No."
"O--how was that?"
"I thought it safer to get away first--as he is so uncertain in his temper."
"Perhaps you are right....Besides, I have never told you my name. It is Miss Templeman....Are they gone--on the other side?"
"No. They have only gone up into the granary."
"Well, it is getting damp here. I shall expect you to-day-this evening, say, at six."
"Which way shall I come, ma'am?"
"The front way--round by the gate. There is no other that I have noticed."
Elizabeth-Jane had been thinking of the door in the alley.
"Perhaps, as you have not mentioned your destination, you may as well keep silent upon it till you are clear off. Who knows but that he may alter his mind?"
Elizabeth-Jane shook her head. "On consideration I don't fear it," she said sadly. "He has grown quite cold to me."
"Very well. Six o'clock then."
When they had emerged upon the open road and parted, they found enough to do in holding their bowed umbrellas to the wind. Nevertheless the lady looked in at the corn-yard gates as she passed them, and paused on one foot for a moment. But nothing was visible there save the ricks, and the humpbacked barn cushioned with moss58, and the granary rising against the church-tower behind, where the smacking59 of the rope against the flag-staff still went on.
Now Henchard had not the slightest suspicion that ElizabethJane's movement was to be so prompt. Hence when, just before six, he reached home and saw a fly at the door from the King's Arms, and his step-daughter, with all her little bags and boxes, getting into it, he was taken by surprise.
"But you said I might go, father?" she explained through the carriage window.
"Said!--yes. But I thought you meant next month, or next year. 'Od, seize it--you take time by the forelock! This, then, is how you be going to treat me for all my trouble about ye?"
"O father! how can you speak like that? It is unjust of you!" she said with spirit.
"Well, well, have your own way," he replied. He entered the house, and, seeing that all her things had not yet been brought down, went up to her room to look on. He had never been there since she had occupied it. Evidences of her care, of her endeavours for improvement, were visible all around, in the form of books, sketches60, maps, and little arrangements for tasteful effects. Henchard had known nothing of these efforts. He gazed at them, turned suddenly about, and came down to the door.
"Look here," he said, in an altered voice--he never called her by name now--"don't 'ee go away from me. It may be I've spoke61 roughly to you--but I've been grieved beyond everything by you--there's something that caused it."
"By me?" she said, with deep concern. "What have I done?"
"I can't tell you now. But if you'll stop, and go on living as my daughter, I'll tell you all in time."
But the proposal had come ten minutes too late. She was in the fly--was already, in imagination, at the house of the lady whose manner had such charms for her. "Father," she said, as considerately as she could, "I think it best for us that I go on now. I need not stay long; I shall not be far away, and if you want me badly I can soon come back again."
He nodded ever so slightly, as a receipt of her decision and no more. "You are not going far, you say. What will be your address, in case I wish to write to you? Or am I not to know?"
"Oh yes--certainly. It is only in the town--High-Place Hall!"
"Where?" said Henchard, his face stilling.
She repeated the words. He neither moved nor spoke, and waving her hand to him in utmost friendliness62 she signified to the flyman to drive up the street.
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1
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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consequential
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| adj.作为结果的，间接的；重要的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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42
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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44
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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45
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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46
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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47
mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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49
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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50
substantiated
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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52
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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53
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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54
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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56
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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61
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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